


Sherlock gets sick

by wendymarlowe



Series: John and Sherlock's Kinky First Times [37]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Doctor!John, First Time, M/M, Medical Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-11-06 13:18:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11036979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe
Summary: Sherlock is sick. He doesn't "do" doctors, though, so John resolves to give him an at-home examination instead. He's very thorough.(Part of my "John and Sherlock's Kinky First Times" series of shorts, all revolving around the same basic theme of "John and Sherlock get sexy for the first time and also discover some kinky stuff about each other.")





	1. Chapter 1

“Face it, Sherlock - you’re sick.”

“Am not.” Sherlock attempted to glare at John, but the effect was ruined by another bout of coughing. He looked absolutely miserable, but that didn’t diminish his stubbornness one bit. _Git._

“If you won’t let me drag you to the clinic, then at least go to your regular doctor. You do have one, right?”

Sherlock rolled dramatically to his other side, facing the back of the sofa, and refused to answer.

“Let me guess - the nice blokes at A&E _are_ your regular doctors?”

“I don’t do doctors,” Sherlock declared. As if that was the end of the conversation.

“Just like you don’t get sick. I see.” John couldn’t resist hanging around in the doorway to the sitting room a bit longer, just trying to take in the novel sight of Sherlock feeling under the weather. In all the months they’d been sharing 221B he’d seen Sherlock less-than-healthy countless times - stabbed, burned, mildly poisoned, hypothermic, under-rested almost to the point of hallucinations - but never actually _sick_. Sherlock would have actually looked pitiable if he weren’t so determined to pretend nothing was wrong.

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock muttered, but there was no heart in it.

“Can I at least get my stethoscope-”

_“NO.”_

“Fine.” John flashed a V at Sherlock’s back (where Sherlock couldn’t see it, unfortunately) and headed for the stairs to his room. “Get pneumonia and lose a lung for all I care.”

***

Sherlock wasn’t better by the next morning. Was still huddled on the sofa coughing and shivering, actually. John didn’t say anything to him directly, but he did have a word with Mrs. Hudson on his way to the surgery. She vowed to get some chicken soup into Sherlock whether or not he felt like cooperating. When she wore that expression, John had no problem seeing how she could have faced down a team of gun-wielding CIA agents while still in her house slippers - Sherlock didn’t stand a chance.

***

When Sherlock hadn’t answered any of John’s texts by the end of his shift, John only debated a minute or two before deciding _fuck it_ and grabbing his prescription pad and lab coat. He had his usual black medical bag at the flat, of course, otoscope and stethoscope and reflex hammer and such, but he grabbed a few more essentials from his office and threw them in his briefcase for the Tube ride home. If Sherlock wasn’t willing to go see a real doctor, John would bring the doctoring to him.

***

“He’s had half a cup of tea and several biscuits,” Mrs. Hudson whispered when John came in the door. “I do think he’s feeling quite a bit better - he’s not groaning dramatically every five minutes like he was yesterday - but when he’s in a strop like this it’s so hard to tell.”

Sherlock _did_ look better, John decided. He had some color back in his cheeks and had obviously managed a shower. Still in pajamas and his dressing gown, but they were different pajamas than he’d been wearing that morning so he had to have been mobile at some point. He was still pouting, but it was back to his normal grumpiness rather than his _I’m dying_ theatrics. “You’re looking more alive than you were yesterday,” John declared.

“I wasn’t sick,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Ah. Of course you weren’t. I’ll be right back.” John ran up to his room and grabbed his medical bag, throwing on his white lab coat in the process. _Stethoscope around the neck, my nametag on just for the hell of it, and . . . there. I look the part._ He tossed everything else in the bag and headed back downstairs to where Sherlock was still lying on the sofa and staring at the ceiling. “Lucky for you, I can do an outpatient well visit just as easily.”

Sherlock frowned at him - and then something complicated flashed across his face. He sat up, eyes wide, strop apparently forgotten. “You’re dressed for the clinic,” he declared.

Usually Sherlock despised statements of the obvious, so John ignored it. “You want to do this here, or move to the kitchen? Better light in there, if you don’t mind.”

Sherlock just blinked at him. “John, why are you-”

“Because you were ignoring me before, you berk,” John said. “And if you haven’t been for a checkup in a while, you’re probably due. Whether or not you’re sick right now.”

“I don’t do doctors.”

“Here’s fine, then.” John tugged the coffee table closer and sat on it, knees spread so he had Sherlock’s legs trapped between them. Not the most professional position, certainly, but strategic. Harder for Sherlock to swan off to his room this way. _Right, then._ “Hi, Sherlock,” he declared with the jovial smile he used at the start of every appointment. “I’m Doctor John Watson. I’m going to start with your temperature, all right? Open your mouth.”

“I know who you are, John. Even if you didn’t have your nametag clipped to your co- _ah._ ”

John half expected Sherlock to spit the thermometer to the floor, but he just sat there looking perplexed instead. Having his mouth full kept him quiet, though, so John pulled out the stethoscope and palmed the chestpiece to warm it up a bit. “I’m going on the assumption that if you don’t like doctors you’ve probably deleted all this so we’ll just take it slow, yeah? Listening to your heart and lungs, next - hold still. That’s it.” He didn’t have a chart to mark Sherlock’s vitals down on, but the heartbeat sounded steady. A bit fast, but nothing to be concerned about. “Deep breaths now - in, hold it a moment, then out. Okay if I put my hand under your shirt?”

Sherlock made a strangled noise around the thermometer, but he nodded slowly. John tugged up the side of Sherlock’s t-shirt and slid the stem of the stethoscope up underneath. He couldn’t entirely avoid brushing the bare skin of Sherlock’s chest with the backs of his fingers as he moved the stethoscope around, but by dint of some very focused effort and not actually looking at Sherlock’s face, he managed to stay professional. Even though Sherlock was temptingly warm and from this distance smelled entirely like his poncy shampoo. _Not what this is about, dammit._ John shifted the stethoscope higher and slid his other hand around Sherlock’s back to cover his (clothed) shoulderblade and adjust his posture.

“Breathe in again for me, nice and steady. There you go - and out. Again. I can definitely hear some congestion in there, but there’s nothing to indicate it’ll take more than plain old time to clear up. How does it feel - constrained? Or like normal?”

Sherlock jostled the thermometer in his mouth and pointedly didn’t look at John’s face. “It’s fine,” he mumbled.

“Good.” John didn’t feel at all normal - there was nothing _normal_ about Sherlock, ever - but if this is what it took to get Sherlock some basic preventative medical care, he’d roll with it. Genial bedside manner and all. “Let’s look at your temperature, then.” He retrieved the thermometer and was mildly surprised when Sherlock stayed silent even without the extra incentive to keep his mouth shut. “Just under thirty-eight - not surprising that you’re a bit warm at the moment, but I’d like to keep an eye on that if you start to feel worse again, okay?”

Sherlock’s gaze dropped demurely to the table next to John and he nodded. “I suppose that would be acceptable.”

 _Git._ John didn’t say it aloud. Instead he shuffled backward a bit - just enough to allow Sherlock a fraction more leg room without presenting the impression he was giving him permission to leave - and dug his reflex hammer out of his bag. “I think we both know your reflexes are excellent, but humor me.” It took some maneuvering, mostly due to Sherlock’s bloody long limbs, but John managed to prop Sherlock’s legs one at a time over his own thigh and check his patellar reflex. Other than an odd intake of breath when John first touched his knee, Sherlock reacted with textbook accuracy.

“What else?” Sherlock wrapped his arms around his torso as if cold, but he still wouldn’t meet John’s eyes. There was something wrong - something Sherlock would probably have thought was obvious if their places were reversed - but John didn’t have Sherlock-level deduction capabilities and was therefore limited to ordinary guessing. Which told him Sherlock was . . . scared?

“You don’t have to do any of this, you know,” John said slowly. “You were being skittish before and I thought that maybe you’d be more comfortable with a check-up at home. But if you don’t . . . if you’re not . . . help me out here, Sherlock. What’s wrong?”

Sherlock just pressed his lips together in a thin line and shook his head. “I appreciate the thought, I really do. It’s just . . .”

 _Oh._ John felt himself blushing. “I wasn’t planning on performing a prostate exam, if that’s what you were worried about.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up. “I wasn’t - I didn’t - _John!”_

“It’s okay.” John let out a little huff of laughter, mostly at himself. “Wasn’t even on my radar, so it didn’t occur to me to clarify. Figure that might be asking a bit _too_ much of you as my flatmate, right?”

“That’s -” Sherlock swallowed hard. “Okay. Right.”

John didn’t even know what caused him to look down right then, but some sixth sense had him lowering his head right at that exact instant. And he found himself staring at the very obvious, _very_ erect bulge in Sherlock’s pajama trousers. Time stood still for a moment - was this what it was like for Sherlock when he was putting together clues into one of his deductions? - while several disparate observations came together in John’s brain.

_One: Sherlock doesn’t “do” doctors. Didn’t say he doesn’t like them, or doesn’t trust them, just doesn’t “do” that. Suggests there’s a reason._

_Two: Sherlock has been oddly quiet and subdued since I walked in with my lab coat on. More than the residual illness would account for._

_Three: If Sherlock is anything, he’s gay. Possibly asexual, maybe just a low libido, but he’s never shown the slightest inclination to be interested in women._

_Four: Holy fuck, he’s hiding a generous cock._

John didn’t really intend for that fourth observation to happen, but it snuck in there with the others and he couldn’t help it. He didn’t even realize he’d gone quiet - while still staring blatantly at Sherlock’s crotch - until Sherlock cleared his throat and squirmed.

“John?”

“Hmmm?” John looked up and immediately had to fiddle with his white coat to avoid giving too much away on his face. Far from looking sick, Sherlock had his keen I’m-deducing-you expression on.

“You have your theories as to why I don’t get check-ups,” Sherlock said slowly. “I don’t know how you’re interpreting this, but I can assure you-”

“Hey.” John forced himself to meet Sherlock’s gaze, to let Sherlock read him after all. “My current _theory_ is that perhaps you’re not scared of doctors after all. Perhaps you’re embarrassed about how you _do_ react. And it’s okay, Sherlock.”

“Is it?” Sherlock grimaced. “I’ve always had the impression that my particular reaction is Not Good. Definitely something my straight flatmate would be disgusted by. Especially when this straight flatmate is himself a doctor.”

“And a soldier,” John reminded him. “You think I’d have lasted through two tours if I were one to let a little thing like sexual orientation or a medical fetish scare me off?” He looked down at Sherlock’s erection again, a little more openly. “This particular _reaction_ may not be one I share, in this sense, but I would say I’m a long way from disgusted. Intrigued, maybe. Flattered. Tempted?”

Sherlock goggled at him.

“In the interest of fairness,” John added, “I should add that I’m not entirely unaffected either. Physiologically. By knowing that me taking care of you is turning you on so much.” His white coat was quite effectively covering over his own semi-stiffie, or he’d have drawn Sherlock’s attention to its presence by now. “Which means what happens next is up to you: would you like to continue with your exam? Or would you prefer I leave you alone for a while so you can see to yourself in private?”

Three slow blinks, all while Sherlock had yet to close his jaw. Eventually he sucked in a deep breath and swallowed hard. “When you say continue the exam . . .?” he prompted.

“Oh, there’s lots more to check. Pale skin like yours, it would probably be helpful for me to examine any moles on your back, to identify potential melanoma risk. Patellar reflex isn’t the only one to test, either. I can examine your skin sensitivity to heat and pressure on various parts of your body, just to make sure it’s within a healthy range. And, like I brought up earlier, you should regularly get your prostate checked to ensure it’s healthy and . . . functioning properly. I’d be happy to ensure your autonomic nervous system is functional, too, as well as some specific smooth muscle groups. The hypophysis, in particular, should be stimulated to ensure your pituitary gland is working as intended. Any or all of those, as you like.” _There, that sounded reasonably professional, didn’t it?_

“You’re not running away,” Sherlock said in a small voice. “John, why are you offering this? You’re not gay.”

“No, but you are.” John cocked an eyebrow at him, daring him to deny it. “And I’ve come to the conclusion that helping my idiotic, consulting genius flatmate to experiment with this particular aspect of his transport is something that falls entirely outside labels. In particular, the mental image of making you come is sexy as fuck and I’d really love to add the experience to my own mind palace.”

Sherlock frowned. “You don’t have a mind palace.”

“For this, I’ll build one.” Fuck, a whole mind city if he had to. “Would it help if I said I’d probably be wanking about it for _ages_ afterward? You’ll be able to envision me in the shower - I know you know when I’m having one off, you always give me that look afterward - and you’ll have a perfect picture in your mind of _exactly_ what I’m pulling off to.” He reached down and adjusted his own cock calmly, like this was a totally normal thing for flatmates to be doing. “If you’re very, very good, a model patient, I may entertain the notion of an even more hands-on examination in the future.”

God, the look on Sherlock’s face . . . John was pretty sure if Sherlock hadn’t already been sitting down, he’d have keeled over as his giant brain bombarded him with a list of the possibilities. John sat patiently, hand on his hard-on, until Sherlock got over his embarrassment enough to reply with nod. “That’s . . . I’d like that,” he murmured, voice almost cracking. “Not just the doctor thing, but because it’s you.”


	2. Chapter 2

For someone who would never in a million years have predicted this particular turn of events, John composed a strategy remarkably quickly. _Probably the same run-headlong-into-danger instinct that led me to invade Afghanistan_. He fought to contain a slightly hysterical giggle. Sherlock wouldn’t want to be laughed at. Sherlock, who was sitting quietly, blushing, and waiting for John to look him all over and hopefully do something that would end in mutual orgasms. _Hell yes._

“In that case,” John said in as professional a voice as he could muster, “I’ll need you to take off your shirt, pajama trousers, and your pants.”

If anything, Sherlock blushed harder.

_No pants, then._ John had discovered Sherlock’s occasional disdain for undergarments their first month living together, when Sherlock misjudged the waist size of an old ratty pair of pajama trousers and accidentally flashed quite a large amount of arse while opening the refrigerator. They both steadfastly refused to talk about it afterward.

“You can keep your dressing gown on for modesty’s sake if you like,” John added graciously. As if they didn’t both know Sherlock was going commando underneath. “I know it’s not quite as stylish as those elegant paper monstrosities we keep at the clinic, but it’ll do. I’m going to leave the room and allow you a moment to undress in privacy, if that’s all right? When you’re ready, lie face-down on the sofa. I just need to see your back and shoulders for right now, so you may cover up your lower half if it makes you feel more comfortable.” He added a cheeky wink. “I promise, this part won’t hurt a bit.”

Without waiting for a response, John trotted up to his bedroom and sat down hard on his bed. It took a good two minutes of imagining the most horrid things he could think of before his raging stiffie would consent to settle down and wait its damn turn. John took a few more deep breaths, dug the smaller of his two lube containers out from his bedside table, and headed back downstairs.

Christ, Sherlock looked like he could have been posing for a figure drawing class. Head pillowed on his hands, bare back practically glowing against the dark blue of his dressing gown. Which was artfully draped so he could lie on most of it but still leave one corner to curl around over his milk-white hip and cover most of his arse. _Most_ \- John got a feeling if he shifted his angle a few feet to the left, he could probably see down Sherlock’s coccyx and possibly get an eyeful of arsecrack as well.

“Comfortable?” he asked with a calm he very definitely didn’t feel.

Sherlock nodded, eyes wide.

“Excellent.” John donned a pair of latex gloves from his medical kit - they were hardly necessary with Sherlock, given the amount of blood they’d already spilled on each other in the past, but he had a sneaking suspicion that Sherlock’s medical-kink side would appreciate the effort. And he did, if the pace of his respiration was any indication. “Deep breaths,” John reminded him. The stethoscope was cold again, so he unbuttoned his own lab coat and shirt and held it against his own sternum for a moment. “Warming it up a bit for you,” he declared cheerfully, same as he’d done with countless patients. Although with them he always used his hands... “I know it can be a bit chilly on bare skin. Okay, I got in a good listen to your breathing and heartbeat from the front, but I’m going to do the same thing back here. Just lie still and take deep breaths.”

Sherlock sucked in a long lungful of air and exhaled slowly. He did try not to tense up - John could see it in his muscles - but he twisted his head around so he could watch John out of the corner of his eye as John moved the stethoscope around at random. When Sherlock was fully relaxed again, John withdrew it and started gently massaging Sherlock’s deltoids instead.

“I’d say probably three or four more days of a deep cough, based on where it sounds like the fluid buildup is in your lungs, but hopefully the aches and lethargy will go away sooner than that. Now, on the subject of your skin - do you use sun cream when you’re outdoors without a shirt?”

Sherlock snorted. “Does it _look_ like I ever go out without my shirt?”

No, it looked like he’d been sulking indoors for so long his skin had given up on melanin entirely. John just _hmm_ ed, though, and pressed a little more firmly along the base of Sherlock’s spine. “You’re at a particularly high risk of melanoma, unfortunately - very light skin with very dark hair wins the genetic jackpot in that regard. When was the last time you had anyone examine your moles back here? Are you keeping an eye out for any new or abnormal ones?”

“I told you not ten minutes ago that I don’t do doctors, John. I’m sure bloody Mycroft would let me know if I had so much as a pimple crop up - I wouldn’t put it past him to have a camera in the loo.”

Oh, wasn’t _that_ a lovely thought. John vowed to search the walls and ceiling for a potential recording device before he next jacked off in the shower. “Dr. Watson,” John corrected.

“I always call you John.”

“And right now I’m Dr. Watson. Who is attempting to conduct a long-overdue physical exam on you, Mr. Holmes. I assume, if you don’t ‘do’ doctors, you haven’t had your prostate checked recently?”

Sherlock tensed up instantly.

“We don’t have to,” John hastily reassured him. “Like I said, it’s up to you--”

“No, you’re…” Sherlock levered himself up onto his elbows so he could better turn and look John full in the face. God, he already looked well-fucked and John hadn’t really even done anything yet. “I trust you,” Sherlock said quietly. And he shuffled the dressing gown off and onto the floor.

_Bloody hell._ That admission, more than even the sight of Sherlock’s naked bum on display, was something John knew he’d treasure forever. Sherlock really _did_ trust him - with his kink, with his health, with this painfully fragile thing between them which was promising to be quite lovely indeed. He _hated_ to not be in control, and here he was handing John the reins. Willingly. John felt a bit dizzy at the realization.

Of course, finally getting a good eyeful of Sherlock nude probably wasn’t helping his sanity either. John silently tugged and prodded his flatmate-and-hopefully-more until Sherlock was sitting on his heels facing the wall, head pillowed on the back of the sofa and knees spread obscenely wide. It was a mouthwatering display, and one John fervently hoped he’d get to study again at length in the near future. For now, though…

“You’re doing well, Mr. Holmes,” he murmured. “You’re being such a good patient. We’ve just got this one last thing and then we’ll see to those autonomic nervous system responses, hmmm? You’re welcome to do the whole ‘turn your head and cough’ thing, if you like, but it’s really not necessary. I’ve got the time to go slowly.”

“Yes, Dr. Watson,” Sherlock said quietly. “I want… I want that.”

“Good. Right then.” John smeared some lube on his left index finger, then brought his right hand down to knead and caress Sherlock’s gorgeous bum. “This will be easier if you relax. Can you do that for me?”

Sherlock nodded and laid his forehead back down on top of the sofa cushions. John worked slowly but confidently, tracing his slick finger around Sherlock’s rim until Sherlock’s hips were shifting restlessly, and then pushing just the tiniest bit inside.

“Oh!”

“Yes, I know it can be startling at first. It will get better in a moment, I promise.”

Sherlock moaned, low and dirty. His cock was hanging heavy and neglected in the shadow of his torso, John noticed, but Sherlock made no move to touch it.

_He wants this as much as I do._ John lubed his fingers up again, two this time, and resumed teasing and stretching Sherlock’s hole. They were far beyond the boundaries of doctor and patient now, but fuck it. Sherlock was practically whimpering into the fabric of the sofa by the time John got both fingers all the way inside.

“There we go,” John breathed. He had to hold still for several seconds or there was a good chance he was about to come in his own pants just from the sounds Sherlock was making. Some unmeasurable time later, he finally eased back from that cliff and found Sherlock rocking back and forth, just a bit, on his two fingers. Which were _literally inside Sherlock_. Who was also awfully close to the brink.

“Please?” Sherlock punctuated the whine with a particularly firm push back against John’s hand. “I want to - I want you to--”

John Watson wasn’t a bloody good doctor for nothing, tremor be damned. John crooked his fingers smoothly, just barely brushing over Sherlock’s prostate, and then a second time a bit more firmly. Sherlock seemed to have gotten stuck in a silent pose of supplication: head thrown back, eyes closed, mouth open, wonder in every line of his body. John reached around his hip to palm the man’s cock in his other hand, brushed his prostate one more time, and Sherlock folded in on himself like a deflating balloon as he came.

“Bloody hell,” John said quietly, the words sounding odd in the sudden stillness of the flat. “I think that was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” His own erection was pressed insistently against his zip, complaining strongly about missing out on the action, but he and his cock were imminently going to have either the shortest or the longest shower ever. “You want me to stay a minute?” he asked. “Or should I…” He waved vaguely in the direction of the bathroom, even though Sherlock couldn’t possibly see while all folded in a heap like that.

“Stay.” Sherlock rolled over and beamed at John with a beatific expression. There was appreciation there, for sure, but also tenderness and eagerness and - dare John hope for it? - love.

“Sure,” John murmured, and shuffled onto the sofa beside his incredible, amazing flatmate. Boyfriend. Partner. Sherlock immediately oozed over to spread, naked and sated, across John’s lap.

“You can masturbate later,” he declared. He illustrated his intent by squirming a bit more and then nuzzling his cheek against John’s straining cock. “Dr. Watson. John. I noticed you seem to have omitted checking my oral health…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Long time no see (read?). Two fun and exciting things:
> 
> 1) If you're going to DragonCon, I'm gonna be on two Sherlock panels! The kid-friendly one is (at least currently) scheduled for Sunday at 5:30, and is about the BBC show. The rowdier, raunchier one is at 11:30 that night and we're all gonna be talking about fanfic. Most while drunk, with no verbal filter whatsoever. It's gonna be amazing.
> 
> 2) I know I've mentioned being super-busy here before, but today's finally the day I've been waiting for ever since I started writing my first story! My debut novel is out, a M/M romance set in small-town Georgia, and I really want to thank y'all who have stood by me the last several years as my writing slowly improved and our Baker Street boys got kinkier and kinkier :-) I'm on Twitter as @wendyqualls and online at wendyqualls.com. I split my tweets fairly evenly between writing-related stuff and stupid things my kids/dogs are doing, if that's your thing. Come say hi :-D


End file.
